


Home Unto Thee

by echoist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-14
Updated: 2010-05-14
Packaged: 2017-10-09 10:51:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoist/pseuds/echoist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short scene directly before the opening bit of 5.22.  No spoilers for the finale, just a possible continuation of where I felt Castiel's character was headed in 5.21.  (Edit:  There was a whole paragraph missing!  D'oh.  Fixed it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Unto Thee

                It should have been the end of all things; the last step down, and a big one.  It should have been painful, obvious; it should have been debilitating and strange.  It should have mattered.  The truth was, Castiel barely noticed when the last of his Grace slipped away.

                He was preoccupied.  The scent of frying eggs and bacon cooling on a wire rack beside the stove pulled him down from the guest room, hair rumpled, shirt untucked.  Bobby paced before the television, hurling obscenities at each new “BREAKING NEWS” bulletin that scrolled merrily past while Dean popped a fresh slice of bread into the toaster.   Sam sat on the front porch, hands clasped about a steaming mug of coffee, watching the sun crest the horizon.   It was a house making ready for war, as only they knew how. 

                "Mornin’, Sunshine,” Dean offered acidly, pushing a plate into his hands.  Castiel studied the coagulated lumps of albumen and fatty acids gathered there, and wondered how something that looked so terrible could smell so good.   Dean made a noise he had learned to translate as disapproval, or possibly exasperation, followed quickly by deft fingers tugging at his shirt.  “What are you, like, five?” Dean muttered, slipping each mismatched button free to refasten them all in a line.

                  Bobby grumbled,  turning off the television  with a definitive snap as the power cord parted ways with the outlet.  Dean’s hands smoothed the wrinkles from the angel’s shirt, glancing out the window at the sound of Sam’s footsteps descending the rickety porch stairs.  “You gonna eat that, or what?” he questioned, swiping a piece of bacon from the plate on his way out the door after Sam. 

                An angel stood in the kitchen of a house built by the hands of men, only a century before, and realized it felt like home. 


End file.
